She wanted a satisfactory answer. Her face demanded it. I just wanted to be left alone and continue
looking through the bins.
“I don’t get it. Why?”
“I’m a story teller. I’m looking for stories.”
A blank skinny white lady stare: Not good enough.
“It could be anything. A face, an expression, a place, an
era...”
She offered an “OOOOK” to break her silence.
“It’s lives and stories in bins. I’m looking for something I
can’t define. I know it when I see it.”
I wait for a tiny bit of understanding. Nothing.
“I’m an artist. It’s a conceptual thing. Appropriation--”
She shrugged and walked away.
I continued looking through the bins feeling very happy I was born
me and not she. I am so lucky
I’m not like her, a human with a simple mind, unable to live, experience and connect on
different and more complex levels.
I stirred the heap of photographs, stuck my hand in and left
it all to chance. When I go back for more photographs, I will
take one of me and sneak it in a bin.
Maybe I’ll end up on some hipster’s wall.
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